


There's Only One Road Out of Town

by Overnighter



Category: Friday Night Lights, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dirty Talk, F/M, Het, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/Overnighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester pulls into a tiny Texas town on a Friday night during football season, when nothing's open but the Applebee's. Tyra Collette's got a thing for bad boys and lost boys and, especially, for boys who are both at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Only One Road Out of Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elzed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/gifts).



The restaurant’s been dead all night. 

It’s a Friday in October, and anyone who hasn’t made the trek to Arnett-Meade to watch the game has long since migrated from her section into the bar. They’re clustered around the small radio Jeff brought in from home and turned up loud enough to drown out the Muzak that permeates the rest of the space, where the Captain - or maybe it’s Tennille - is urging Tyra to do that to her one more time. 

They can’t turn it off. They’ve tried before, on Friday nights, and sometimes on Sundays when the rodeo’s in town and the riders want some old school Waylon Jennings, but there are, apparently, at least a few things that don’t bow down at the altar of high-school football. Just because one of them is a soulless, corporate restaurant chain shouldn’t depress her at all.

She’s sitting at one of the tables in the back of her section, refilling ketchup bottles and keeping an eye on her only table – an elderly couple whose RV is parked sideways across half their front lot, and who have spent 45 minutes splitting a maple blondie and sharing one teabag – when he walks in. There’s no bell above the door, no screeching record album, but it feels like there should be. He doesn’t fit in. Not in Dillon, and certainly not in the vestibule of an Applebee’s.

He shakes his head and resettles the battered leather jacket on his shoulders as though shaking off the outside world, and she sees him physically recoil as he glances around at the garishly cheerful, deliberately vague, faintly Southwestern décor. He leans against the empty hostess’s podium heavily, and she catches a glimpse of old denim and older boots as he crosses one leg behind the other. 

He looks tired, and pissed off, and the way he’s standing makes her think he’s spent all day driving. There’s no rig in the parking lot when she glances out, however, just a gleaming black muscle car parked under an arc light, angled away from the Winnebago. Besides, even from her seat in the dining room, she can tell he doesn’t have the ass of a trucker. 

She’s thinking about taking pity on him and seating him, or at least giving him directions back to the highway, when Joyelle bustles up to the podium with a wide smile and an armful of menus. 

She’s never seen anyone so thoroughly devoted to a crap job at minimum wage as Joyelle, at least not in a place where the cooks have to follow diagrams in order to plate food, and the guy at the front of the restaurant looks faintly bemused by her enthusiasm. 

She’s talking a mile a minute as she leads him past the bar and into the dining room, and it looks for a minute like he’s about to abandon ship, but then a cheer roars up at a play that’s too faint to be heard and he does the little shuddery recoil again before hurrying to catch up behind Joyelle. 

Joyelle walks into Tyra’s section and drops a menu on the table as the guy sits heavily in the chair, tilting it at an angle and draping his arms over the curved back as she finishes her hostess patter with a cheerful “Y’all have a good supper, then, ya’hear?” 

She waves a little as she passes back out to the bar again, and Tyra shoots her half a smile as she goes. 

She’s not pretty enough to be a cheerleader, and not slutty enough to be a rally girl, so she’s harmless in Tyra’s book. Besides, Tyra once spent an excruciating half hour listening to her talk about puppet shows for Jesus or some craziness while giving her a ride home in the rain, so in Joyelle’s mind they’re probably best girlfriends, she figures. 

Either way, it means that she makes sure that Tyra gets the big tippers and the hot guys in her section, even if the next customer technically should have gone to Imadeen. However, Imadeen’s in the bar with everyone else, and she’s the one who dumped the field trip from the old folks’ home on Tyra in the first place, so she’s not too concerned. 

Tyra stands up, tugging on her pigtails to tighten them and smoothing her apron over her skirt before she approaches him. She learned her lesson about messing with customers the hard way after Connor, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to look good for the hottest guy in four counties. Or as good as it’s possible to look in a purple polo shirt with an apple angled slightly above her left nipple. 

She’s bored, and there’s nothing wrong with staying in practice. 

He’s staring at the menu in disbelief when she walks up to stand next to his table. Up close, his brown hair fades to blond at the tips and there are patches of reddish-gold in his days-old stubble. 

“Hi,” she hears herself say on automatic pilot, “I’m Tyra and I’ll be your server tonight.” 

She points a pencil at her pad out of habit, and he drops the menu to look her in the eye, then gasps. 

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “You just look a lot like someone else.” 

Yeah, like she hasn’t heard that line before. Still, he hasn’t flicked her with water and offered to help her out of her wet things, so he’s a step above the usual proposition, at least. 

She looks down at him, eyebrows raised, and he holds up his hands in protest. He’s got a crooked little half-smile making faint dimples in his cheeks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I’m sure you must hear crap like that a lot...”

“Not a lot,” she breaks in, and to her surprise, he raises his eyebrows right back at her. 

“Okay, fine. A lot.” 

He nods, satisfied, and leans back in his chair again as she taps her pencil point against her pad, suppressing a smile. 

“Thought so. You’re too pretty for a one-horse town like this. But you really do look like someone - ” 

“That you used to know? The girl that got away?” she teases, but he shakes his head, his smile dying away. 

“Nah. Just a girl I met one time, that’s all.” 

He looks down at his hands, and she flicks a pigtail behind her ear, sorry that she pressed it. 

“What can I get for you this evening, sir?” she asks formally, even though the guy’s not that much older than her. Or at least he doesn’t look it. Maybe it’s just best to start over.

“You can tell me what the hell a Riblet is, for starters,” the guy says, though, his eyes flashing with put-on horror that can’t quite disguise his amusement. It’s like the last minute never happened. “Tiny baby cow? The secret ingredient is frog legs? What?” 

She smiles despite herself and starts to recite the corporate description of the many awesome attributes of their signature dish – the one she’d been forced to memorize in training - but he stops her with a wave of his hand. 

“Is anything you’re about to say going to make it taste any better?” he asks, and she shakes her head, trailing off. 

“Then what’s my best bet here?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at his now-discarded menu, “Because everything in there sounds sort of scary.” 

“If we weren’t the only thing open, I’d suggest a better restaurant,” she says without thinking, and he throws his head back a little and laughs. It’s a short, deep bark, and dorky as hell, but somehow he makes it seem sexy. 

“At least you’re honest. If I thought I could make it, I’d head for the highway, but it looks like you’re the only game in town.” 

“Well, since you’re stuck with us, you can’t go too wrong with a burger,” she says. “Not even here.” 

She’s rewarded with a genuine smile – one that makes the little lines around his eyes deepen – in return. He picks up the menu again and glances inside. 

“One Cowboy Burger it is, then. Medium-well, and a Lone Star.” 

“Sorry, we don’t carry Lone Star,” she says, and watches as his face falls. 

“Seriously? It’s Texas. The only good things about this godforsaken place are beef and beer, and now you’re telling me I can’t even get that? What is wrong with you people?” he snaps, and slumps over the table.

“You can still get a beer, just not a Lone Star,” she points out, and he’s rolling his eyes. 

“I can’t believe they let you get away with that around here. Aren’t the Rangers going to ride in and arrest you all for conduct unbecoming a Texan?” he asks, but there’s no real heat in it. He’s just going through the motions. 

He sprawls back in his chair again, and she’s struck by the dark circles under his eyes. His skin is so pale that they look like bruises, his stubble almost painted on. 

“Just get me a Bud, I guess,” he says, and under her breath she hears him mutter, “Two hundred and fifteen days, and I’m spending one of them eating Riblets at the ass-end of the universe. Awesome.” 

She turns away without another word, trying to decide if crazy trumps hot, but he grabs her arm before she can moves away from the table. 

She jumps, and almost knocks him back into his chair out of reflex. She’s never liked the casual touches that men give Mindy and her mother when they’re all out together, but since the night of the Mud Bowl, she can’t stand to have anyone – even a guy this good-looking – touch her without warning. 

He backs off immediately, though, as if reading her thoughts, dropping his hands with a rueful smile. 

“Sorry – Tyra, was it?” 

She nods, taking a deep breath, and she notices that he backs off further. His hands are splayed out on the paper place mat in front of him, and he’s meeting her eyes steadily. She wonders if she looks that spooked after all, or if he’s just one of those guys who can pick up signals. 

“It’s just been – a day,” he says with a sigh, and smiles again, trying to disarm her. 

“Where the hell is everyone anyway? Did you miss the memo on the town vacation or what?” 

“It’s Friday night,” she says quietly, and his eyes finally move away from her, puzzled, as another faint roar erupts from the bar. 

“Football,” she adds. 

He rolls his eyes and raises his right hand slowly to run it along his neck. 

“Of course it frigging is. No chance the garage’ll be open, then, before tomorrow?” 

“Afraid not. Everyone’s gone to the away game.” 

“Everyone but the lucky boys and girls of Applebee’s?” he asks, smiling again, and his hand hovers slowly above her arm again, as if he’s going to josh her, before dropping back to the table. 

“Well, Applebee’s doesn’t quite get Texas football,” she says with a grin. 

“How about you?” he asks, eyebrow arching again. 

“Mostly, I hate it,” she admits. 

“Ah, Waitress of My Dreams,” he says, and lets her go with another half smile. 

When she returns from the bar with his beer, the old couple is gone, leaving her $1.20 tip on a thirty dollar bill, and the hot guy is talking into his cell phone, low and fast. 

“No, it was a bust. A total bust. A bunch of kids. Really, this time, just a bunch of kids. You’re where? Are you sucking on a rib? You suck,” he spits into the phone, then waves his thanks as she places the beer down on the table, “No, it’s just a belt, but I’ve got to wait to get the part. Whole town’s shut down. Frigging football.” 

He’s still talking as she walks away to bus the other table. 

The Panthers are down by three in fourth quarter and they’re the only two in the whole place not currently in the bar. She should leave it for Julio, but he’s got an ear glued to the set, listening to his cousin’s first start, and she doesn’t want to bother. 

The hot guy sounds different, talking to whoever’s on the other end of the phone. She can’t decide if it’s a wife or a kid; he’s obviously found of whoever he’s talking to, but he’s joking around in that mean way boys have with each other, too. It’s someone who’s making him smile again for real, though, right up to his eyes. 

She’s late getting back with his burger and fries. 

The cooks are in the bar now, and she’d had to stop there, too, when she’d heard Tim’s name after a tremendous hit. No matter what they said, none of them took it for granted anymore, that the boys would get up and walk off the field. He was fine, and Saracen had gotten them to a first down, so she could go back to ignoring the game as usual.

The guy’s writing furiously in an old leather notebook when she approaches his table again, the bottle of beer already drained in front of him, and placed neatly on its small, round mat advertising the “Octoberfiesta!” 

She makes a small noise and he glances up, sweeping the notebook out of the way so she can place his order in front of him, so smoothly that she never even catches a glimpse of what’s inside. It doesn’t look like the first time that he’s done it, either, and she wonders if maybe he’s a writer, on the road to recreate some dusty story in some book he once read. 

He doesn’t look the type, though. Too rough around the edges, and he barely glanced at that small stack of newspapers they keep by the door. If there’s anything she’s learned from hanging around smart kids now, like Julie and Landry and Matt, it’s that writers are readers, and readers will read anything, even beer mats.

He eyes the doughy white bun suspiciously as she collects his empty bottle from the table and heads back to the bar. He’s got half of it eaten by the time she returns with a fresh beer, but the suspicious look hasn’t left his face. He grabs the bottle from her before it touches the table -- his fingers, long and surprisingly delicate, ghosting over hers as he does – and swallows down about a third of it with a small grimace. 

“I know beggars can’t be choosers, but that is a disgrace to the longhorns I passed on the way in, Waitress of My Dreams,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes at his exaggerated shudder, and notices that it doesn’t stop him from taking another bite. 

“Seriously. I know a woman in Minnetonka that is a genius with a spatula. She could whip your crew into shape one-two-three. This is disgusting, really,” he says, but it’s around a mouthful of food. 

She doesn’t bother to answer him, but he kicks out the chair opposite him with a dusty boot, jerking his head at her. 

“C’mon, take a load off for a minute. The least you could do after participating in the death of the great American cheeseburger is keep me company while I eat it,” he says, and it’s direct, almost like not flirting at all. She’d almost believe he was sincere if his eyes weren’t twinkling. 

“I’m not supposed to sit with the customers,” she protests faintly, and he looks around the deserted dining room with a raised brow. 

“Who’s gonna notice? Are we on candid camera?” he demands, grinning up at an imaginary concealed lens. Tyra wouldn’t really put it past them all, but as far as she knows there are no cameras anywhere around. 

She shrugs, and glances back at the bar, where a tense silence has fallen; the fourth quarter must be drawing close to an end. 

“Tell you what, I’ll even buy you a beer,” he says as the other room erupts in cheers. She braces, waiting for an outpouring of customers, but everyone seems content to stay in the bar, at least for now. 

He smiles up at her, mouth full of cheeseburger again, and she gives in, feeling the unexpected heat of desire deep in her belly. 

She walks quickly over to the bar and pushes her way through the celebrating throng to the back bar. Jeff’s grinning, and a group of his buddies are holding up their rings and chanting “Can’t Lose,” so she grabs two bottles out of the freezer and mimes what she hopes registers as “tab” to him. 

He whoops and waves her off, so it looks like she’s the one buying the beers for the rest of the night. 

When she comes back, the sandwich is gone, and the hot guy is nursing his second beer, his eyes following her as she shimmies back into the dining room, bottles over her head for safekeeping. She pauses, wondering if he’s done now, but he just flicks a wrist at her, and even half stands up as she slides into the seat across from him. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says when she puts the bottle in front of him, and she twists her own bottle in her hands nervously. 

He taps his longneck against hers and raises it in a mock salute. 

“Here’s to us, darlin’” he says, then stops. “Tyra. Here’s to us, Tyra, and our football-hating ways.” 

She grins at him against her will and takes a long drink of the beer. It tastes like ice, like long nights by the creek with Tim, like laying in the bed of her pickup truck with Mindy, looking up at the stars. 

“You know, you’ve got me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I don’t even know your name.” 

He takes a long pull from the bottle and pushes his plate of fries toward her with another little wave, grabbing one for himself and dredging it in ketchup before popping it into his mouth. 

“That depends a little,” he says around a mouthful of fry, “On just how friendly you are with the guy that owns the garage.” 

Hunh, that was different. 

“Sunvabitch sold me a bogus four-barrel carb last spring. It took me two days to realize that my truck hadn’t bought it completely, so not too friendly, really,” she says, remembering the way the hot sun had beaten down on her, as Landry and Tim offered her conflicting, stupid advice while the back of her neck burned.

“In that case, it’s Dean. But if anyone asks you, I’m Dave Mustaine,” he says “Or at least I will be when I buy a couple of new belts tomorrow.” 

“You hiding out from the law here in delightful Dillon, Texas?” she asks, picking up a burnt fry and nibbling on it. They aren’t cold yet, at least. 

He smiles, and leans back in his chair again, elbows braced on its back. 

“Maybe I’m just taking in the sights.” 

She snorts despite herself, and takes another sip of beer to cover. 

“Yeah, right. Beautiful downtown Dillon, your vacation destination.” 

But when she looks at him he’s gazing steadily at her once more, the edges of his smile peaking out from either side of his bottle of beer. 

“Oh, I don’t know. The view from here’s not so bad, really.” 

He rakes his eyes over her body, even as he swallows more beer.

Jesus, but he really is a dork. She’s heard Matt Saracen come up with better lines. But Matt Saracen doesn’t have such broad, sloping shoulders. And he certainly doesn’t say it with that low rumble of a voice. 

“Yeah, well, our mountains in particular are mighty fine,” she snaps back, and he raises his eyes guiltily back to her face once more. 

With the game over, people are slowly starting to drift out the door towards the parking lot, and home, but no one’s come near the dining room for while. He shrugs, as if to say “no harm, no foul,” and jerks his head towards the door. 

“Your boys pull it out in the end?” he asks, and she looks at him in surprise. 

“Yeah, they did,” she says in surprise, “They ended up by three. Touchdown. I didn’t think that you liked football.” 

“Nah, it’s all right. Just didn’t want to get stuck here sleeping in my car tonight is all. And that’s some pretty accurate reporting, I gotta say, for someone who wasn’t so into it herself. Your boyfriend on the team? You guys having a fight?” 

She’s picking at the peeling label on the beer bottle with her nail, refusing to look up at him. She’s been letting Landry follow her around like a puppy, using Tim to scratch an itch every now and again, but the truth is that it’s been her longest stretch without a boyfriend since she started high school. She’s not really sure how to answer. 

“Never mind,” he starts to say, but she looks up and shakes her head. 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just, sort of between boys right now,” she says finally. 

“That is a damn shame,” Dean says, and that little rumble in his voice is back again, doing things to her spine she can’t quite ignore, “For them, I mean. Lucky break for me.” 

She sighs. 

“I’m not going to sleep with you, you know,” she says, and he shoots her a wide grin that’s pure mischief. 

“Of course not. But I’ve got nothing but time, and a man can dream.” 

She’s grinning right back at him when she hears a little throat-clearing noise behind her. She turns to see Mike Maubry behind her, frowning. 

“Tyra,” he says in that singsong way of his, like she was a puppy who’d piddled on the carpet, “We do not fraternize with customers, do we?” 

Dean looks stricken, and starts to rise, to explain, but she waves him off and stands up herself, brandishing her pad, which she’s just slid out of her apron pocket. 

“My station’s done, I even bussed the tables. This is my last customer of the night. Why do you have to bust my chops?” she asks, “We were just settling up the bill.” 

“That looked very cozy to me,” Mike snots. 

Okay, she gets that moving down here from Austin to run a chain restaurant would probably put her in a perpetual bad mood, too, but he’s an assistant regional manager at an Applebee’s. It’s not like his life was all that exciting before Dillon, either. 

“Strictly business,” Dean interjects, before she can say anything. 

“I would hope that you’re not drinking alcohol with a minor on restaurant premises,” Mike says, and she watches as Dean’s eye widen slightly, but he’s a cool customer. 

He reaches out and plucks her bottle off the table, draining it in one motion, his tongue darting out to lick traces of her lipstick off the bottle’s rim. 

“Nope,” he says, “That’s mine. Just settling the bill, like she said.” 

“All right, then, Miss Collette. You can leave him the check and give Imadeen a hand closing, seeing as you’re so caught up here in your section. Have a pleasant evening, sir,” he adds as he walks away, managing to make it sound like a threat. 

She smiles at Dean one last time before dropping the check on his table, minus the two beers she scored from Jeff, and follows Mike out towards the bar, where he’s waiting for her, glaring. 

She walks past him and into the other side of the restaurant, where Imadeen is recounting the whole last quarter of the game in graphic detail. Every time she angles back towards her own section, Mike pops up with another chore for her to do. 

It’s not until they’re almost ready to close that she gets back to the table, and as she suspected, he’s long gone. He’s left enough to cover the bill, including enough to cover the beers she hadn’t charged him for, and a twenty-dollar tip besides. 

There’s no other sign of him, not that she really expected him to be waiting, but she checks the tab carefully just in case. No phone number, no nothing. Well, it was still better than most Friday nights, after all. 

They leave the restaurant all in a clump around one in the morning, Mike locking up officiously and making a point of walking Joyelle to her car on the far end of the parking lot. Tyra walks in the opposite direction with the busboys; her truck’s parked against the side of the building, and the boys scatter on foot as they get close to the street. 

She turns the corner in the deserted end of the lot and there he is, sitting on the hood of the old black muscle car she’d seen outside the window before. He’s got his feet up on the bumper, his hands behind him as he leans back on the hood, and he’s not doing anything but watching her. She wonders how he figured out it was her car, or even if he had, if it was just coincidence. 

“It was the only truck left in the lot,” he says as she comes up even with the car. Even though she’s in flats and he’s sitting on the car, she’s still taller than him, and he tilts his head up a little to look at her. She can’t see his eyes, but she catches a glimpse of his grin flashing in the dark. 

“That’s damn creepy. I told you I wasn’t gonna sleep with you,” she points out, but she’s flattered. 

She hadn’t wanted to admit to herself how much she’d been hoping he’d still be here. She doesn’t like to think how much she’s got in common with her mama and Mindy when it comes to men. 

Still, he's staying back, keeping his distance. She has her keys out, and she's pretty sure she could make it to the truck before he could get his feet on the floor. She hates that she thinks in those terms now, that she checks for exits and escape routes everywhere she goes, even when hot guys grin at her in the dark. 

“Who said anything about sleep, Waitress of My Dreams?” he asks, but like before there’s no real heat in it, no danger. 

He leans forward, letting his arms dangle between his knees. It’s cold enough that the car’s covered in condensation, and his breath is making little puffs of damp air. She wonders if he’s been sitting here long, if his ass is wet and cold inside those old jeans. 

“Seriously, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just thought maybe you’d know a place I could get a drink, maybe a game of pool,” he says, “Like I said, I got nothing but time tonight.” 

“You really going to sleep in your car tonight?" she asks without thinking, his twenty-dollar tip weighing heavily in her pocket. It’s on her lips to invite him home to crash on the sofa, but she can’t bring herself to do it.

She tells herself that he could be a serial killer, but really, she just doesn’t want Mindy getting her mitts on him just yet. 

“Yeah. It’s not so bad. The backseat’s bigger than a twin bed,” he says, and again she catches a glimpse of his leer. She can’t explain it, why he seems so harmless, as though his horndog actions are just a role he’s walking through in his sleep. 

“So not the first time, then? You know, we do have motels in town,” she points out. 

He shrugs, and shakes his head. 

“Nah, not worth it. It’s just one night, ‘til the garage opens tomorrow. It’s only a pain when it’s cold as balls out, or when Sammy’s bitching all night long.” 

“Sammy’s your girl?” she asks. Can’t help fishing a little, really, trying to find out more about this guy with two names and no place to go for the night. 

He throws back his head and laughs, loud and long, the same dorky snort as before. 

“Sammy’s _a_ girl, sometimes, but no. Sammy’s my kid brother. Of course, he’s about the size of the frigging Chrysler Building, the ginormous freak, so it’s not exactly like he fits on the bench seat, you know?” 

She smiles at the way his voice softens, the affection clear despite his mocking words. 

“That’s who you were talking to earlier!” she says, and he raises a brow at her. “Before dinner.” 

“It was. Why? Something about our conversation catch your ear?” 

He sounds a whole lot more serious than he had a few minutes ago, and she takes a half-step back before she thinks about it. 

“No. No, I just – you sounded happy,” she says, and wants to bite her own tongue off. 

When he answers, all the menace is gone from his voice again, so it must have been the right thing to say after all. 

“I’d be happier if I were in Austin with him, eating ribs and listening to some decent music.” 

“Well, there is the roadhouse, out by the highway, but it’ll be packed with people coming back from the game. Not great, unless you’re spoiling for a fight,” she says, “Otherwise, you’re kinda outta luck around here. Unless you want to try the strip club...” 

He perks up a little at that; more than at the suggestion of a fight, at least.

“How far?” he asks, “My baby’s not going to make it very far without that belt.” 

Too far to walk for sure, and he must see it in her face, because he leans back again, groaning softly. 

“And I suppose a liquor store is out of the question?” 

“Sorry. Closed for the game.” 

“Jesus fuck.” 

She takes another look at the car glinting under the streetlight. It’s covered in road dust, but she can see it’s been well-taken care of. 

“Your baby, hunh? You put those rims on yourself?” she asks, mostly to distract him from deciding to hike on out to the Almost Paradise to get a watered-down drink and a glimpse of her sister’s asscrack. 

He grins up at her, then jumps down off the hood, swiping at the back of his pants. He’s a hair shorter than she is; the tips of his spiky, short hair are level with her eyes. 

“Nah, my dad did those, almost ten years ago.” 

“This your daddy’s car?” she asks, as he squats to inspect the tires, giving her room to join him if she wants. After a moment she joins him, tugging her skirt down as she balances on the balls of her feet. 

“Not anymore. She’s all mine now.” 

“And what? He’s driving around in the mini-van, mourning his lost youth?” 

Something in the set of his shoulders warns her even before he answers. 

“He’s not driving anything anymore,” he says softly. 

“I’m sorry,” she starts, but he cuts her off with a wave. 

He stands up, knees popping, and offers her a hand. She puts her hands in his, and can feel callouses along his palm, still damp and chilly from the hood of the car. He pulls her to her feet smoothly, and she’s surprised at how effortless it is, how much easy strength he conceals. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says when they’re upright once more, “You didn’t know. Besides, he’s in a better place now.” 

He sounds serene about it, blithely sure. Nothing about him thus far has screamed Bible-thumper, but if this last year has taught her anything, it’s that sometimes people surprise you. 

He doesn’t say another word about it, though, just unlocks the door and reaches in to pop the hood. 

“Now, this, on the other hand, I did all on my own. You gotta see what I did with the flywheel last year,” he says as he raises the hood and ducks under it, pulling a flashlight out of his inner pocket, and grinning like a little kid. 

She likes how he just assumes she’s following him, that he doesn’t make a big deal out of the fact that she knows her own way around an engine. Most guys act like they’re watching a monkey typing or something; he’s just geeking out over his powertrain. 

She leans in next to him to follow where his finger is pointing. He smells like damp leather and cheap beer, and the same detergent Tim’s brother uses. He moves, jostling her, when she asks a question, and she catches a fainter whiff of old sweat and road dirt and, under it, his own essence. Something about it makes her knees weak, and before she can think twice about it, she’s licking a broad stripe up the side of his neck, tasting the dirt under her tongue. 

She pulls back, mortified, but he’s faster, turning to face her, one hip leaning against the car. He grabs her by the upper arms and grins lazily, his eyes already dark with desire.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she stammers. 

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me, Waitress of My Dreams,” he says softly, and then kisses her. 

His kiss is surprisingly – or maybe not – tender; soft, with none of the urgency she’d seen in his eyes. It’s like he’s getting to know her, letting her take the lead, and when she parts her lips slightly his tongue licks her front teeth, and she could swear she can feel him grinning. 

“Who said anything about sleeping?” she parrots back at him, when they come up for air a moment later, both breathless and gasping. 

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against her lips, and kisses her again, harder this time, moving one hand up to cradle her head, and the other down to her hip. 

When they break off this time, it’s because he pulls back, and he takes a step back, leaning against the Chevy for balance.

"Please, Jesus, tell me you’re legal,” he gasps. 

She moves so that she’s standing between his widespread legs, leaning against his chest, and his arms come up automatically to enfold her. 

“Totally legal,” she says, leaning in to kiss him again, but he tilts his head back away from her. 

“For how many days, exactly, Miss I-Shouldn’t-Be-Drinking-With-A-Minor?” he murmurs, but there’s a smile on his face. 

She moves closer, rubbing against the hardening bulge at the seam of his jeans. 

“Do you really want an answer to _that_ question,” she whispers, grinding softly against him.

His hips buck up, just a little, meeting her pelvis. 

“I absolutely do not,” he answers, and leans in to kiss her again. 

A few minutes later, and they’re practically humping against the still-open hood of the car. His hands are roving at the waist of her skirt, trying to find a way under her ugly-as-sin purple polo, and she’s got one hand in his hair, the other braced against the lip of the engine’s manifold. 

“Hey, now! Get a room!” 

A beer bottle explodes besides them as a pickup speeds off up the street beside the parking lot, filled with cackling, half-drunk boys in Panther blue. She doesn’t think that, with the hood up, they can see anything but their intertwined feet, but they both jump back all the same. 

“Looks like the triumphant hordes have returned,” she mutters, and Dean turns around long enough to shut the hood of the car, adjusting his pants while he’s turned away. 

“Apparently,” he says, leaning back against the hood again, “we’re going to have to find somewhere a little more private, if we’re going to continue.” 

“I can’t take you home with me,” she blurts before she even thinks about it, and he grins, pulling her towards him. 

“That’s okay, Waitress of My Dreams, I don’t do well with families anyway.” 

She digs in the pocket of her skirt and comes up with a fistful of cash, including his twenty dollars. 

“Hey, I’m good, but I’m not actually a professional,” he says, taking the cash from her and tucking it back into her pocket before she even realizes what it is he’s done. “There’s no need to pay for services rendered or anything.” 

She blushes, but he won’t let her pull away. 

“I can pay for a motel,” he murmurs in her ear, nibbling it as he goes, “But I’m trying to stay under the radar.” 

“How about the car?” she says, while she can. “You said the back seat was as big as a bed.” 

“As big as a twin bed, sweetheart,” he says, kissing his way around her neck, “And it’s not moving from under this light until tomorrow.” 

“We could use my truck,” she says, gasping as his hand finally finds an opening, going up under her shirt and skimming the soft curves of her belly. 

She can’t believe she’s talking this way; how many times did she bitch Tim out about doing it in the bed of the truck. This guy has her out of control. 

“Better, but we could use a little more privacy, if you know what I mean,” he says. His thumbs are brushing her nipples over her cotton bra, though, so it’s hard for her to concentrate. 

“I know a place,” she says, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I know where we can go.” 

He drops his hands almost immediately, and nods with satisfaction. 

“All right, then. Let’s make like a tree and get out of here.” 

She walks over to her truck on unsteady legs, but he puts a hand on her elbow and guides her. When she unlocks it, he’s still standing there, and she wonders if he’s one of those guys – always has to drive – but he simply opens the door for her silently, and goes around to the passenger side to let himself in. 

She shoves her schoolbooks behind the seat before he can climb in, wishing she had time to do more, then catches herself, and gives herself a little mental talking to. 

Part of her can’t believe she’s letting a strange man with an aversion to real names and motel rooms into her truck; can’t believe she’s about to drive out to the middle of nowhere with a total stranger. She knows it sounds like the plot of a bad Lifetime movie, but she still doesn’t feel scared around this guy, as sketchy as he is. Mostly, she wants him to keep doing what he did before. 

She puts the key in the ignition pretty smoothly, and pulls out onto the now-deserted street, heading for the old fishing hole. This time of year, even after a game, it should be pretty deserted. Of course, if Dean is a serial killer, she’s playing right into his hands, but hopefully, she’ll at least get an orgasm out of him first. 

She shakes herself, and turns on the radio, where Slammin’ Sammy Meade is still extolling the virtues of their last-minute comeback. She flicks it off again and sees him leaning against the passenger-side window, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with faintly amused eyes. 

“Having second thought, Waitress of My Dreams?” he asks softly. “It’s not too late to turn around.” 

“Tyra,” she says firmly, and her voice doesn’t shake at all. She grips the steering wheel, eyes on the dark road. 

“I know,” he says. 

They drive in silence until she turns out of Dillon onto the two-lane highway. 

“You’re a good driver,” he says suddenly, “Not too easily distracted.” 

She feels him shift beside her on the seat, and then his hand is on her thigh. 

“Keep it up,” he says. 

She’s not sure what he means at first, but then she feels his hand creeping up under her skirt. She wishes suddenly that she’d worn the thong she’d bought that day with Julie, instead of the three-to-a-pack flowered cotton panties she always wore to work. 

Her mom gives them to her and Mindy every Christmas, two-for-one from the Wal-Mart on the other side of town. 

His hand fumbles against the elastic at the crease of her thigh, and suddenly she’s not thinking about underwear anymore. She’s concentrating on the road, trying to see the turn-off, trying not to blush in the dark, thinking of him feeling her dampness, how she’s wet already before he’s even touched her. 

It’s always been easy to get her going; she never understood those cheerleaders who acted like sex with their boyfriends was a big sacrifice. But since that night at the Alamo Freeze, her fingers are the only ones that ever get her off. She’s forgotten what it’s like to have thick, blunt fingers pushed up against her, searching for a way inside. 

She grips the steering wheel harder, feeling a finger slip between her folds, curious and probing. When it rubs against her erect clit, she swerves into the other lane for a moment before righting them. 

“Easy now,” Dean murmurs beside her, pulling his finger out, tracing the outline of her labia as he leans in to kiss her neck again, “This would be a little tough to explain to those Rangers.” 

She feels the warm heat of desire spreading through her, and then curses under her breath, turning the wheel sharply. She almost missed the damn turnoff. 

She feels Dean slide away from her for a moment as the truck veers right, onto the faint track beneath the cottonwood trees. She feels his hand slip out from under her skirt as she gets the truck under control on the bumpy dirt road, but as soon as he realizes she knows where she’s going, he sidles up next to her again. 

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him lick his finger, and then a moment later it’s back again, as she struggles to keep the soft mewls in the back of her throat from escaping. 

She pulls the truck into the clearing crookedly, seeing the faint glimmer of the water in the headlights. As she suspected, it’s deserted, and the only noise when she kills the engine is the soft babble of the stream upwind, and the persistent buzz of a chorus of unseen frogs. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Dean mutters against her neck, and slides his hand reluctantly away from her. As soon as it’s gone she feels the ache, but he’s already on his knees and rummaging in the space behind the seat. 

“Got it,” he crows, holding up the old, dirty Mexican blanket Tim had stuffed back there two summers ago exactly for this reason. He jumps out of the cab before she can react, and comes around to open her door for her again. 

She leaps down, ignoring his offer of a hand, and watches as he looks around, scouting things out. After a minute he leads her down towards the soft sand at the edge of the fishing hole, not completely concealed, but not easily seen from the road. 

“It’s probably too cold for snakes,” he says matter-of-factly, “But I don’t want to get too far under the trees, just in case.” 

He spreads out the blanket on the ground and turns to face her. He’s not smiling anymore, and she almost feels like his eyes are leaving marks as they rake over her body once more. 

He takes her hand, and pulls her towards him, still standing, kissing her like he did back in the parking lot - soft and tender. There’s more urgency now, but he’s still letting her lead, taking her cues. 

She runs her hands down his shoulders under his jacket, and he breaks off the kiss, stepping back and shrugging out of it, laying it carefully on the ground a little ways from the blanket. In the moonlight, she can see the goosebumps rising, making the fair hairs on his arms stand at attention. 

His T-shirt is the color of army fatigues and fits him tightly, the short sleeves gripping his biceps, and she can’t stop herself, moving closer, grabbing at his him, pulling at his belt. 

The next few minutes are a flurry of discarded shirts and clanking belts.

She strips off her own shirt, letting it fall next to her, and kicks off her shoes. She unsnaps her decidedly unsexy black cotton skirt and steps out of it, leaving it where it falls. She hesitates for a moment, then stands up tall, letting her see her unmatched cotton underthings, her mangy tan bra and her Wal-Mart briefs. 

In those few seconds, he’s taken off his own shirt, laying it neatly atop his jacket, and is now hopping around on one foot, trying to untie his boots. After a few more minutes, he gives it up as a bad job and falls heavily onto the blanket, laughing. 

She likes the way he throws his head back, teeth flashing. She likes the way he puts his whole body into it. The men in her life don’t laugh enough. 

Once on the ground, he makes quick work of his boots, stuffing each sock into a toe before placing them carefully beside his other clothes. 

He stands up again with an easy grace, leaping to his feet in one powerful motion, and shucks off his jeans, ignoring her as she watches with frank interest. Instead, he folds them neatly and adds them to the growing pile, then reaches around her ankles for her own discarded clothes and does the same. 

There’s a purpose to his methodical neatness, it seems to her, but she can’t quite figure out what it could be. She wonders if he’s spent a lot of nights grabbing his pants as he sprints out of windows, steps ahead of someone’s daddy’s shotgun. He did say he didn’t really do families. 

When he’s done with his tidying, he turns back to her, his erection already tenting his black boxer-briefs. He crosses to her, laying his arms over her shoulders, and she’s shocked at the contact of bare flesh on bare flesh. He leans in to kiss her again, and at every point of contact, of skin against skin, she feels an electric spark. 

He’s in no hurry, his hands exploring her lazily as his tongue probes her mouth. When she runs her own hands down his back and over his ass, he presses tighter against her, his hips making little circles against her thigh. She pushes back against him, and he takes her down so quickly she doesn’t even realize that she’s hit the ground until he’s looming over her, the small charm around his neck on a leather loop swinging free over her face. 

She gasps as he lays himself out on top of her, his strong thighs parting her own legs. He’s holding himself up on his elbows, over her chest, his hands in her hair, staring down into her eyes. 

“This is turning out to be one of my better bad nights, I have to say,” he says with a grin, and then he’s kissing her again. 

At some point he rolls them, flipping her over as if she weighed less than a tiny, first-string cheerleader in a tiny little skirt, and she gasps again. She’s straddling him, her hair coming loose from her pigtails, and that quick her bra is gone. She never even feels his hand on her back, unsnapping it. Her breasts swing free, and his hand reaches up to cup one, thumb stroking her nipple, already hardening in the cool air. She makes a little noise in the back of her throat, then leans over to kiss the tiny dip at the base of his throat, beneath his Adam’s apple. 

She kisses her way down his chest, licking a small, l-shaped scar just above his belly button, and reaches for the waistband of his shorts. He arches his back, letting her drag them down his legs and discard them. 

He brings his hands up behind his head, as if he’s afraid to touch her, to direct her, and she hesitates for just a moment before she bends over him again. His cock is slender, like his fingers, dark red at the tip, bobbing slightly against the flat planes of his stomach. She reaches out to touch it, and it jumps in her hand. 

“Just sayin’ hello,” he murmurs somewhere above her, and she flat-out giggles, feeling the blush steal over her face. 

“Oh man, between that and the pigtails, I feel like a dirty old man,” he groans. She takes a deep breath and leans down to place a soft kiss on the head of his cock. 

“I’m no little girl,” she whispers, and envelopes it her mouth. 

“Jesus fuck!” he groans again, and it sounds almost like a prayer, but she’s not even halfway through her bag of tricks when he struggles up on his elbows and puts a hand in her hair, stopping her. 

“Hey,” he says softly, “Hey, keep the party from stopping before it starts.” 

He pulls her up the length of his torso, draping her over him like a blanket. She can feel his erection, rock-hard and weeping, against her hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He kisses her again, one hand on her left breast, the other slipping into the back of her panties and over her ass. 

He rolls her again, but this time she’s ready for it, knowing what’s coming next. She starts to open her mouth to tell him that it’s okay, she’s on the Pill, go ahead, but he lets her go, kneeling between her legs again. He’s looking as her likes she’s Thanksgiving dinner, or maybe the Holy Grail, and she can’t quite bring herself to interrupt. 

He hooks a thumb into the elastic of her panties on either side of her hips, and pulls them off so smoothly that she barely registers that they’ve gone. She spreads her legs, just a little, and feels his hand against her mound, stroking, as he smiles down at her. He kisses her mouth again, then follows her lead, leaving a soft trail of kisses down her center, making a detour to suck each nipple into his mouth in turn. 

When he reaches the top of her pelvic bone, she feels his hands parting her lips again, spreading her wide, and she sits up, shocked. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, and she thinks that question makes her sound younger than any fit of giggles ever did. 

“Returning the favor,” Dean mutters, then stops and looks up at her shocked face. 

“Sunuvabitch. Seriously? The boys in this town are frigging idiots,” he says, sitting back on his heels. 

“Really, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that,” she says, but he’s shaking his head, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

“Oh, Tyra, Waitress of My Dreams, I really do. Just lay back, sweetheart, and I’ll steer you around the curves.” 

She’s so embarrassed that the blush has spread from her face all the way down her chest, hotly. She wishes that she’d thought to shave that morning, that she should have taken another shower after P.E., and then his tongue is at her entrance, and she’s not thinking anything at all. 

She can’t describe the sensation, not even to herself. It’s like a knot in her stomach is building and building, but not a nervous knot. It’s like Dean took a fire banked down somewhere deep inside her and blew on it, awakening the flames. She feels the flush on her face and her chest spreading, and she’s making little hungry sounds in the back of her throat that she can’t quite control. 

Then he adds a finger, probing her deeply, and it’s like all those little points of fire, the heat in her chest and the heat in her stomach, all touch, and come together, and explode. There’s something like an electric shock deep in her center, spreading up behind her eyes, making her back arc and her toes curl as her fingers scrabble for purchase in the blanket beneath her, and she can’t believe she’s never felt this way before. 

When she comes back to herself, he’s flopped down on the blanket beside her, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He sees her open her eyes and rolls onto his side, his head propped on a folded arm, grinning down at her. 

“Back with us, are you?” he says, and she can hear the mischief, the sheer delight in his voice, “You gonna give those Texas boys whatfor, or what?” 

“You have no idea,” she groans, and he laughs again. She’s never seen a boy – a man - so pleased with her response before, so satisfied before the main event. 

“Seriously - morons, the whole bunch of them.” 

He looks down at her, and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. 

“You think you’re ready for Round Two?” he asks, popping a brow at her. He’s still hard against her leg, and she feels wonderful, relaxed and easy with him in a new way. 

“Can we do that again?” she asks, and he chuckles. 

“We can, but I do have other tricks up my sleeve. If I do it right, you might like it almost as much,” he says. 

“Well, I guess that’s okay, then,” she answers, and he surprises her by rolling away from her and jumping to his feet once more. He walks over to their neat pile of clothes and picks up his pants, pulling out his wallet and digging out a familiar, foil packet. 

“I’m, uh, I’m on the Pill,” she says, glad he’s facing away from her, but when he turns back, his erection is already sheathed in latex. 

“That’s good. Smart girl,” he says as he kneels down between her legs once more, “Smart enough to know two’s better than one.” 

She shrugs as he fists himself once or twice, still staring down at her. 

“A lot of guys don’t like it,” she says. 

“Yeah, well, a lot of guys are stupid. As I might have mentioned.” 

He straddles her, surprising her when he leans forward to kiss her again. She feels his blunt head part her lips and slide in, lubricated by the juices of her orgasm moments ago. He moves in and out tentatively a few times, letting her adjust, them pulls back until just his tip is still inside her, and drives deep with one long, steady stroke. 

She gasps around his lips and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her towards him. On the next stroke he sits back on his heels, pulling her towards him, and she wraps her legs around his waist automatically. Immediately, she can feel him sink deeper, and that fire in her belly is back, slower and softer this time. 

He puts his hand behind her back, hand spread wide, and lets her lean back on him, holding her steady. He breaks off their kiss, setting up a regular rhythm as he seeks out her breasts again, his tongue sweeping over one nipple and then the other, sucking and tugging as she starts to respond again, pushing back against his thrusts. 

She can hear his breathing speed up, deep and irregular, and he lays her back down on the ground again, his hand still cradling her back. His thrusts are faster now, and she’s arching up into them, chasing that electric shock, looking for the right rhythm. Just before he comes she finds it, and she still shuddering with her own pleasure when he erupts inside her, dropping his head onto her shoulder and groaning deep in his throat. 

When he’s finished, he stays there, perfectly still except for the panting breaths in her ear, until she can feel him start to soften inside her and he slips out, one hand on the base of the condom. 

He ties it off expertly and flings it deep into the woods before laying back down beside her once more. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get redressed, so she takes the opportunity to take a closer look. He’s wearing a couple bracelets, a few rings, in addition to his necklace, more jewelry than any other man she’s ever seen, but somehow it makes him seem more naked. 

He puts one arm behind his head and uses the other to pull her down close to him, tucking her against his shoulder. Above them, filtered through the cottonwoods, the night sky is ablaze with stars. 

“It sure is pretty. I can see why someone might want to stay around here. Almost,” he says. 

“I bet they have stars everywhere. I sure as hell am going to find out,” she says, fiercer than she means to. 

“No marrying the football star and heading to church on Sundays for you, Waitress of My Dreams?” he asked. 

“No way. I’ve had enough of this place to last me three lifetimes.” 

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is subdued, “I’ve been there, for sure.” 

“You grow up in a town like this?” she asks, tilting her head to look up at him. 

“Sort of,” he says. 

“Sort of?” 

“Well, I grew up in a bunch of towns like this. All over the country. We moved around a lot as kids. Nothing really changes but the scenery.” 

“How about now?” she asks. She’s genuinely curious, but she also wants reassurance, wants to know that sometimes, people leave towns like Dillon for better things. For different things. 

“What about now?” he repeats. 

“I mean, you got a place you love now? Someone waiting for you?” 

“I’ve got Sammy. We’re – he’s my only family. Since my dad died. We still move around a lot, don’t really have a home base.”

“What exactly is it that you do? I mean, with your fake names and your big black car and your apparent dislike for inner-spring mattresses, it does seem a little sketchy, you have to admit.” 

He chuckles, and she can feel it deep in his chest under her cheek. 

“I guess it is a little sketchy. We’re, well, we’re sort of bounty hunters, my brother and me. Saving people, hunting bad guys. It’s the family business, but it’s not always one hundred percent on the level, if you know what I mean.” 

“So you just drive around from town to town, like what? Like that guy on cable, Dog or whatever?” 

“Something like that. Our prey tends to be a little tougher to find, though.” 

“So what the hell are you doing in Dillon?” she asks, wondering which of her neighbors is secretly a mass murderer. 

“Nothing,” he says, and she sits up to look down at him. 

“Honest to God, nothing. My car broke down on the way back to Austin. I was hunt – looking for something over in Macedonia, but it turned out to be a false lead.” 

“How come your brother’s not with you, then? If you’re out here chasing someone?” 

Dean shrugs, and pulls her down to him again. 

“He had to see a man in Austin about a horse.” 

“An actual horse?” 

“Nah, it’s just an expression. He’s got a little side project, tends to make him a little obsessive at times. So I do solo jobs from time to time, get out of his hair.” 

“Sounds lonely,” she says, thinking about the long, dusty road from Macedonia to Austin, all alone in a classic car. 

“Nah. We’re used to it. And I’ve got Sammy,” he repeats, “That makes all the difference.” 

“Was your daddy – did he die doing what you do?” she asks, not sure why. 

The silence goes on so long she’s convinced that she’s finally crossed a line, but finally he answers in soft voice. 

“He died saving me.” 

“I’m sure he was glad to do it,” she says, not sure of what else to say, as she feels him tense under her. 

“I wish to hell he hadn’t,” he says. 

There’s another few minutes of silence, as he strokes his hands idly up and down her arm. 

“Anyway, it won’t matter soon. I’ve got another gig lined up. I’m letting Sammy fly solo.”

“You just said having him made all the difference, and now you’re leaving him behind. That doesn’t seem right. Is the job that good?” 

“The job is royal pain in the ass. It’s going to be torture, I suspect,” he says, and there’s a hint of gallows humor in his voice she can’t quite figure out. “Still, it’s the best thing to do.” 

“The payoff’s that good?” 

He sits up suddenly, looking off into the darkness. 

“The payoff’s the only thing that matters.” 

He stands up abruptly, and goes back over to the pile of clothes, pulling his jeans on without bothering to try to find his discarded underwear. 

He turns back to her with a rueful smile, her skirt and shirt in a neat pile in his hand. 

“Anyway, it’s the best thing for Sammy. He’s always been better with people. He’ll be fine without me,” he says conversationally. 

He hunting around in the dark for something, and he comes back a moment later with all their underthings in hand. She puts the bra on under her polo, and shimmies into her panties, standing up to straighten out her skirt as Dean sits back down to put on his boots. 

It feels like the end of a movie, like a spell’s been broken, but when Dean stands back up he reaches for her one last time, wrapping his arms around her before turning her around to face him. 

“I feel like I should mention that you’re a beautiful girl. Smart, and funny and scary as hell. You’ll get the hell out of this town, if that’s what you want. I’m good at reading people, too, at least sometimes. You can believe me,” he says, and she can’t believe how sincere he sounds. 

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes as she undoes her ruined pigtails, “You already got into my pants. You don’t have to pretend to flatter me anymore.” 

To her surprise, his face darkens, and he grips her upper arms tightly. 

“Don’t sell yourself short. And I don’t need to flatter anyone to get into her pants. I’m just that damn charming. So you know I’m telling you the truth.” 

He kisses her before she can protest, and when they’re done, he reaches down and grabs the blanket, walking to the end of the clearing to shake it out. 

She walks back to the truck on unsteady legs, a little thrown by his fierce insistence on her fabulousness. It’s not natural. And it’s sure as hell not true. 

She climbs into the truck and fumbles for the key. The noise of the ignition startles her, and she sees Dean come walking into the clearing at something approaching a run. 

He grins when he sees her waiting, though, and takes a minute to fold the blanket before climbing into the cab next to her. 

“I thought you were leaving me behind there for a second.” 

“Nah, that’s just for guys who can’t get me off,” she says with a grin, he holds out his fist to her for a little knuckle bump. Dork. 

She turns the truck around and bounces back out toward the highway. It’s almost dawn; Dean’ll only have to wait a few hours before the garage opens and he can be on his way. 

She turns onto the highway and they’re the only car on the road, the sound of her tires on the concrete the only sound. She can’t be bothered to turn on the radio, or to make conversation. She’s sated and tired and little weirded out by the whole night. 

“You know,” Dean says abruptly when the Dillon town limit sign comes into view, “I oughta beat the crap out of whoever it was made you think that I was just blowing smoke up your skirt back there.” 

“That’s a long list,” Tyra says, and wishes she could figure out how to stop blurting stuff out to this guy. 

“That’s a damn shame. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not right. After all, I am the one that broke your cherry tonight. That means there’s an eternal bond between us.” 

“Uh, I don’t know how to break this to you,” she says, and she can’t help laughing, “But you are certainly not the one that gets that particular honor.” 

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. I broke the only one that matters. The only one, I think – and I’m a pretty good judge of these things -- that there was left to break. That makes me special. And, you know, even more awesome than usual.” 

“I see. So years from now, we’ll pass each other in our wheelchairs or hovercrafts or whatever, and I’ll think, ‘Oh, there’s the boy who took the last of my innocence away,’” she says in what she likes to think of as her Lyla Garrity voice. 

“More like, 'What’s that hot old dude doing in a hovercraft?' Seriously,” he says, and now he’s laughing too. “We could totally join the eight-miles-high club.” 

She pulls into the Applebee’s parking lot, and she can’t believe that only hours and not days have passed. The Chevy is the only car left on the lot, gleaming dully beneath the arc light. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay here?” she asks suddenly. “I mean, I could sneak you into my room or whatever.” 

Dean smiles over at her and shakes his head. 

“It’s just a few hours. It’ll be like a cat nap. I want to get in there as soon as the place opens and be on the road. Sammy’ll have his panties in a bunch if I’m not back tomorrow.” 

He unlocks his door, but before he gets out, he turns to face her once more. To her surprise, he takes her hand in both of his, rolling his eyes a little as he does. 

“Thank you,” he says, and all earlier traces of humor are gone, “For tonight. I hate to waste a day, and you pretty much rescued it for me.” 

“Yeah, God forbid you should waste any time.” 

“God forbid,” he echoes, and he still sounds sincere. 

He leans over and kisses her one last time, slow and lingering, and then breaks it off, brushing her hair off her forehead. 

“Kick some ass, Tyra, Waitress of My Dreams. I’m gonna tell Sammy to keep an eye out for you up in lights someday.” 

He hops out of the cab before she can reply, and doesn’t turn back, holding a hand up over his head in goodbye. 

She pops the truck back into gear and turns it around in the parking lot to head for home. She sees him mouthing something as she turns, and rolls down her window as she passes him. 

“When you talk about me, Tyra, and I think we both know you will,” he’s hollering, “Remember to lie. Tell ‘em I’m the best you ever had!” 

She laughs as she leaves the lot, and flips on the radio as she turns the corner, leaving him behind. Slammin’ Sammy Meade has signed off for the evening, so she listens to the static all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> It's not even remotely your birthday anymore, dearest elzed, even on this end of the world, but I firmly support the Lorelai Gilmore method of birthday week celebrations. 
> 
> Besides, I spent your actual birthday at miss_begonia's digs, talking about hotass men and the dirty things we'd do to them, so I’d like to think that you would have approved. 
> 
> Honestly, this is like the porn that ate Texas. I can only apologize for the appalling levels of exposition before any naughtiness is had. 
> 
> There are minor spoilers to be had for both the first season of Friday Night Lights and for All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II. Neither show, much as I love them both, belongs to me.


End file.
